


Little Trouble in Big Sky

by Isis



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Gen, Period-Typical Sexism, Song: Toss a Coin to Your Witcher (The Witcher), Together They Kill Monsters!, Weird West, Witcher Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Witcher Contracts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23876626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: Killing the monster was the easy part.  Getting the sheriff to pay the bounty - that wasn't so easy.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 14
Kudos: 27
Collections: Minigame: Round 1





	Little Trouble in Big Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> ETA: Cruria drew [Western-AU Ciri here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24183868)!

Ciri pushed open the swinging doors of the Big Sky Tavern and strode into the smoky room. She stopped and looked around, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light that filtered through the dirty windows. Three miners, their faces black with grime, clustered around a table drinking ale from large mugs; four men sat at another table, drinking whiskey and playing cards. A whore in a yellow dress with extravagant lace ruffles and a neckline cut nearly to her nipples leaned against the bar, talking to a fat man in a large hat who sat on a barstool, drinking whiskey. When they turned to see who had come in, Ciri saw the glint of silver on the fat man’s vest. A silver star; that, then, was the sheriff. 

She made her way across the tavern to the bar. The wooden floor was sticky with spilled ale, catching at the soles of her boots. “You’re the sheriff? The woman cleaning the jail said you might be here.”

“And here I am, miss,” said the sheriff, touching his hat brim. “The sheriff of Big Sky, Montana, population three hundred and forty-seven. May I be of assistance?”

Ciri handed him the paper she and Geralt had taken from the noticeboard the day before. “You were having trouble with a blightboar. We killed it.”

“Good job, honey,” said the whore in a sweetly patronizing voice.

Ciri ignored her. “I’m here to collect the bounty.”

“I’ll have to see proof,” said the sheriff, placing the slightly crumpled notice onto the bar. He drained his glass, then nodded toward the barman, who poured him another two fingers of whiskey. It wasn’t very good whiskey; Ciri could smell it, sharp and acrid, even over the whore’s perfume and the cigar smoke that permeated the air.

“We took its head as a trophy,” she said. “My partner’s got it outside with the horses.”

“Well, bring it in.”

Ciri frowned. “You want us to bring a blightboar head into this place?” Not that it was a particularly nice tavern, but still. 

“You want the bounty?” The sheriff raised an eyebrow at her.

Finally, she nodded, and went to the door. Geralt was lounging next to the huge burlap sack they’d put the trophy in, swatting away the flies that gathered, drawn to the scent of the monster’s blood that stained the sack. “He says he wants you to bring it in,” she called out, and he rolled his eyes and hefted it to his shoulder.

“Here you are,” she announced, as Geralt strode in and upended the sack. The blightboar head rolled onto the floor, and the room went silent.

“My, that’s a big one!” exclaimed the whore. She wasn’t looking at the blightboar head, but at Geralt. 

The sheriff squinted up at Geralt as well. “You didn’t say your partner was a mutant.”

“You want a monster killed,” growled Geralt, “you hire a witcher.”

“We didn’t hire you,” said one of the miners. He got to his feet, cradling his mug of ale in both hands in front of his chest as though it were a shield. “We just put up the notice, yeah?”

“Right,” said another miner. “Anyone could have taken the contract. It was on the noticeboard.”

“We don’t like mutants in Big Sky,” said the sheriff.

“So we’ll leave,” said Ciri. “After you pay us the bounty.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said one of the card players. He leaned back in his chair and looked at her from under the brim of his hat. “Sheriff, we put up the coin with the understanding it would go to a ranger. You know, a gentleman with a rifle. Not a girl, begging your pardon, miss. Or a mutant.” He spat onto the floor.

“Rangers usually don’t carry guns with silver bullets,” said Ciri. “Which is what you need to kill a blightboar.”

“Which is what we did,” said Geralt. “So if you’ll just give us our coin, we’ll be off.”

“They _did_ kill the blightboar,” said the barman. He looked at the monster's head with some distaste. Ciri couldn’t blame him for his unhappy expression; there was still some blood dripping from the blightboar's head, mixing with the detritus on the floor. He was probably thinking about what a pain it would be to clean up.

“That they did,” allowed the sheriff. “But for a girl and a mutant? Tell you what. I’ll give you twenty dollars.”

“Twenty?” said Ciri, incredulously. She stabbed her finger at the bounty notice. “This says fifty!”

The sheriff shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”

“The notice,” said Geralt evenly, “says fifty.” His hand went to his gun; he didn’t draw it, just tapped on it lightly, but every eye in the place followed his fingers. “I say fifty.”

The sheriff looked around the room, and to Ciri it looked as though he was making eye contact with each man in the tavern. Then he smiled, though it was a mean sort of smile, the kind that was formed by his mouth but didn’t make it to his eyes. “Well, mister, I’ll give you thirty – but that’s only because your girlie here’s a looker.”

“His _girlie_ says you’d better give us the fifty,” snapped Ciri. She was regretting having killed the damn blightboar. Better it should ravage this stupid town, full of idiot men who didn’t respect her. 

“Well, I say we’ve got you outnumbered,” said the sheriff, and instantly every man in the place drew a pistol and pointed it at her and Geralt. He reached into his vest and drew out a pouch, took out six five-dollar pieces and stacked them on the bar. “Like I said. Take it or leave it.”

She looked at Geralt. He gave her a nearly imperceptible shrug, one shoulder moving just the tiniest bit, and nodded. 

Well, they needed the coin. Thirty dollars was better than zero. They’d ride out of this crap town and find a better place to spend a few dollars for dinner and a room. Or maybe they’d just camp by the river. She didn’t really care.

“All right,” she said, reaching for the stack of coins. She put them in her pocket and they turned to go, just as the doors swung open to admit a wild-eyed, wild-haired boy. He must have been twelve or thirteen – not a child anymore, but not quite a man – but he looked as frightened as a rabbit, and he was panting so hard that the barman drew a small mug of ale and handed it to him as he came to a stop in front of the sheriff. The boy clutched the mug and drank it down, then wiped the foam from his mouth.

“Go on, son,” the sheriff said, his voice kindly. “What is it?”

“Ghost riders!” the boy gasped. “They’ve just passed old lady Murtry’s place, and they’re headed this way!”

An alarmed murmur coursed through the tavern. Desperate eyes turned toward Ciri and Geralt. 

Geralt smiled. It was the same smile the sheriff had worn, but it was wider. “We’ll leave you to sort it out.”

“But – the ghost riders! You’re a witcher! You’ve got to protect us!” stammered the sheriff.

“We don’t have to do anything.”

“You have us outnumbered,” said Ciri pointedly, waving her arm around the room. The miners and card players looked at their pistols as though they weren’t sure how they’d gotten into their hands. “Surely you _gentlemen_ can handle a few ghost riders. How many are there?” she asked the boy.

“I don’t know! I just saw the cloud of dust, and all the hooves!” the boy wailed. “Maybe five, six? Seven or eight? I don’t know!”

The barman frowned. “They better not come in here. Don’t want no ghost riders in the Sky.”

“Well, you have them outnumbered, too,” said Ciri. She counted up the men in the tavern. Most of them, she noted, had put their pieces back in their holsters. “Probably.”

“Wait a minute,” said the sheriff. He looked like he’d suddenly found a scorpion in his underclothes. “We’ll give you fifty dollars if you kill the ghost riders.”

“Sixty,” said Geralt. He held out his hand. “In advance.”

The sheriff made a sour face, but he drew out his pouch again and counted sixty dollars into Geralt’s hand. It was a good thing his hand was large, because it was a lot of coin: two tens, two fives, and a considerable quantity of small change.

“Plus the twenty you still owe us for the blightboar,” Ciri added.

“You said you’d take –” 

“Fifty. Which means you owe us twenty more.”

“I don’t _have_ twenty more,” said the sheriff sullenly. “I just gave you everything in the Big Sky treasury.”

“Well, then,” said Ciri brightly. “I guess you’d better take up a collection from these fine gentlemen. Unless they’d rather hunt ghost riders?”

The men grumbled, but they dug into their pockets. Even the whore tossed a coin at Geralt, though she winked and told him that she’d be happy to take it back from him in exchange for more personal services. Ciri rolled her eyes; Geralt just grunted, and added it to the pile.

The boy had crept up to the swinging doors, and was peering out. “They’re coming this way!” he cried. 

Ciri had already noticed that it had become darker outside, and the wind had picked up. An eerie moaning noise tickled her ears, just at the edge of hearing, and there was a drumming of faint hoofbeats, getting louder. She looked at the pile of coin on the bar, then swept it into her pocket. A hundred and ten dollars; that would get them well out of Big Sky and on their way.

“Ready?” she asked Geralt.

“Ready,” he confirmed. They drew their pistols – the ones loaded with silver bullets, for monsters – and together they charged out of the tavern and into the street. Those ghost riders didn’t stand a chance.

**Author's Note:**

> Monster inspiration taken from [Old Gus' Errata: Tales from the Weird West Monster Manual](https://drive.google.com/open?id=1V2KBef0VpFNXV4uTUCoWN7j1PHxwd8A7) for D&D.
> 
> Title inspiration taken from [Big Trouble in Little China](https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0090728/).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Ciri](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24183868) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)




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